


The Captive

by NukeLassic



Category: The Property of Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 08:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NukeLassic/pseuds/NukeLassic
Summary: She does not forgive easily, I do not know how long I've been here, nor how much longer it will be until I can't stand being here anymore.





	The Captive

The crazy television was here again.

In a cage, not unlike mine, but he looked unhurt. My legs, tender and aching from the “reconstruction process,” kept me from moving too much. I just leaned against the frost-cold white bars and watched him pace. He was muttering himself, gloved hand flickering as he spoke. His accent, his posture, his pacing, and his animated way of thinking aloud held my attention, and the aching kept me from thinking on too much else.

Pain has a way of stealing away your thoughts. Clear ideas of escape plans and considerations had left me, impossibly quickly, after the first part of me had been taken away. Then the second. Then the third. I was well past those, though where specifically was lost to a torrent nerve damage. I watched him pace, and flail, and blather, seething in pain, jealousy, and sadness.

I jolted awake some time later—seconds, minutes, or hours, I couldn’t tell. He was snapping to himself, looking around the area as if searching for a familiar or snapping his gloved fingers would summon a demon to free him from his cage. Naturally, it wouldn’t. I’d already tried. But he snapped a bit longer, still peering around, before ultimately giving up and going back to his pacing, rambling insanity.

His shoes, his jacket, his hat, all incomprehensibly perfect. I stared at them, as if looking hard enough would reveal whatever witchcraft he’d concocted to stay pristine, undirtied, and unharmed in Her cell. I moved my mouth to ask, but the barest whisper of a wince came out instead. Whatever voice I’d had left me with what used to be my legs. My rasp must’ve caught his attention, because he’d looked at me quietly for a long time. A rainbow of colors dripped from his screen, plopping audibly on the floor as he stared. Then, wordlessly, he went back to pacing. I tried to look through his clothes, and find whatever secrets he held that kept him whole.

My shoulder slammed into the floor, which startled me awake. Feeling was beginning to creep back into my feet, which meant that the constant stabbing pain was returning to accompany the eternal ache that raked across my hips. I pushed at the floor, trying to get myself upright again, and the tension in my neck twinged painfully.

The television was on his knees in behind the door of his cell, working his fingers nimbly across the lock. I glared in his direction, and leaned forward. Without my legs to help propel me, crossing my cage took what felt like forever. My toes screamed every arm length I pulled, but I got to the edge of my cage, wrapped my fingers around the bars, and lifted my head up to him. “G-good… luck…”

He looked at me, expression mysterious, and offered a muttered, “Thanks.”

In lieu of a response, I flashed him an okay symbol with my hand. The colors curved, offering me what I imagined to be a smile, and then he went back to his business. I watched him struggle over the lock, something small and metal flashing between his fingers as he worked, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

A loud sound slammed into my bars, and I woke in a start. I looked up, to find myself in The Reconstruction Room, a room I’d grown to know and hate over these past few days, weeks, months, years, or however long I’d been here. She said nothing, just got to work. The pain took over, and I retreated into darkness.

When I woke, my stomach was missing. Whatever nerves I’d had there had ceased responding, and as a result, I couldn’t even control my core anymore. I just laid in my cell, body howling it’s impotent fury, and watched nothing but the pain-created colors swirl at the edges of my vision.

Sometime, likely during the night, I’d managed to get my palms under me, rolled over, and found the television leaning against the bars of his cell, screen made of static, head nodded, seemingly asleep.

I watched the static, listening to the quiet whispers, and drifted off again.

The next time I woke up, the door to the cell was open, and the television was gone.


End file.
